Templar Conspiracy

by Paul Christopher

  “You find this amusing?” Brennan asked as they continued to rattle up the mountain road.

  “I wasn’t thinking about now,” she answered quietly. “I was thinking about the future.”

  “The way things stand right now, I’m not sure the future looks very bright, dearie,” said the priest, a sour note in his voice. “We’re tied up with bits of plastic in the back of a truck. On top of that, your uncle’s been spirited off. We’d better start thinking about the immediate present because I’m afraid we’re on our own.” Suddenly the truck jerked and stopped. They’d reached their destination. The doors banged open noisily and Peggy felt herself being lifted down out of the truck. There was gravel beneath her feet, and then as she was pushed forward, the gravel changed to something softer. Grass, maybe. The air was fresh and clean and even through the bag she thought she smelled snow. They were definitely in the mountains.

  She stumbled up a short flight of wooden steps with Brennan right behind her, if his colorful swearing was any indication. Suddenly her nostrils were filled with the definite smell of cedar. A chalet of some kind. She was brought up short by a hand on her shoulder. Two voices began a heated discussion in Italian and then a third joined in. Finally one of the voices, clearly someone in charge, judging by the tone, commanded quiet. Peggy was pushed forward, and a few seconds later Brennan came stumbling after her. The bag was removed from her head and she caught a brief glimpse of a man’s face, and then the door in front of her was slammed shut. A key turned in the lock.

  There was absolutely no furniture in the room.

  “Fecking hell!” Brennan’s voice boomed. “What in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph is going on here?” His hood was still on; presumably Peggy was supposed to remove it, so she did.

  “I didn’t think priests were allowed to swear or take the Lord’s name in vain,” Peggy said with a grin.

  “Vanity has nothing to do with Jesus, Mary or Joseph, and the word ‘feck’ isn’t swearing in the Republic. Little children say it.”

  “Little children say it in America, too, believe me,” said Peggy, laughing.

  “I don’t find any of this funny at all. I don’t,” said Brennan, his Irishness growing with his anxiety. “You don’t speak Italian, now, do you?”

  “Ciao, bella is about the extent of it,” replied Peggy. “Why?”

  “Our captors were having a discussion just before they threw us in here.”

  “I heard,” said Peggy.

  “The question of the day was whether they should slit our throats now or later. Thankfully they chose later. We’re being held hostage until your uncle tells them what they want to know.”

  “Which is?”

  “The location of a certain notebook.” Brennan eyed her closely. “Do you have any idea what notebook they’re talking about?”

  “Not the slightest,” lied Peggy. She’d seen the bloodstained notebook put into Doc’s hands by the dying monk, Helder Rodrigues, on the tiny island of Corvo in the Azores—a notebook that contained the secrets of the immense Templar fortune lost to the world centuries before.

  “You’re absolutely sure of that, are you?”

  “Perfectly,” said Peggy, not liking the sudden, feral look in the old priest’s eye. She walked to the high, small leaded window and looked out into the purple light of dusk.

  “On top of everything else we don’t have the foggiest idea where we are,” muttered Brennan. He tried the door handle, but it was futile. They’d been locked in a room about the size of the average bathroom. It wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet.

  “I know exactly where we are. We’re in the French Alps, facing east. We’re about nine miles south of Chamonix and about three thousand feet directly above the resort town of Les Contamines,” said Peggy.

  “And just how did you arrive at such a detailed conclusion?” Brennan said skeptically. “You’re friends with that MacGyver fellow, are you?”

  “That’s the west face of Mont Blanc,” said Peggy, looking out at the high, spiny mountain looming above them. “I actually climbed it doing a photo shoot for National Geographic Traveler. A lot easier going up than coming down, believe me. Especially if you’re in the middle of a blizzard, which we were.”

  “Fascinating, I’m sure. But we’re still trussed up like poultry ready for the oven, and these people are going to kill us as soon as they get what they want from your uncle—and they will; believe me.”

  “I wouldn’t be quite so quick to count Doc out if I were you,” Peggy warned. “He might surprise you.”

  15

  He dreamed of blood and war and the death of his wife, Amy, so long ago now. And then surprisingly he dreamed of baseball and the smell of pine tar.

  And then he woke up. There was a dull pain dead center in his back where the first Taser had hit him and a second dull ache high on his left shoulder where the other cop had zapped him through Peggy’s broken window.

  That was no ordinary cop stop, he thought, his senses focusing again. Holliday opened his eyes. It was dark but he could see well enough to know that he was in what looked as though it might have been a cell-like servant’s bedroom. At the end of the narrow bed he was on there was a small TV set with rabbit ears on a chest of drawers, and a straight-backed chair next to it. A single small window was covered by chintz curtains with a blue flower pattern. There were no pictures on the walls.

  He got to his feet and went over to the window. He pulled back the curtains. Outside it was dusk. Enough pale winter light to see the wall of pine trees twenty feet from the window. He was in the middle of a forest. There was a heavy layer of snow on the ground. The window was eighteen inches square under a deeply overhanging roofline; even if he broke the glass there was no way he was going to squeeze through the opening, and it was a good thirty feet to the ground, anyway.

  Holliday turned away from the window and went to the door. Locked. He sat down on the bed and looked around the room. Nothing much in the way of weaponry. The cops had been fake, or bought, at the very least. The question was, Who had kidnapped them and why?

  The CIA was a good bet, but it was even more likely that it was Kate Sinclair and her religious fanatic friends. Fanatic, perhaps, but like a lot of zealots, Sinclair also had an animal shrewdness that could be lethal. Her Jihad al-Salibiyya had caught the imagination of the dozen or so men and women who chose what went into the news cycle, and by achieving that she was getting to the basic fears of most Americans.

  Sinclair was rattling the Muslim sword and doing it extremely effectively. It was the same pattern of guilt by religious association that Hitler had used against the Jews, but it didn’t seem as though the cultural history of the United States went back that far. Heaven help the news pundit who pointed out that little bit of history. Holliday was as patriotic as the next guy and had the battle scars to prove it, but sometimes it seemed to him that his country was blind to its own deeply entrenched, xenophobic madness. Who knew? The CIA had been infiltrated by the Soviets; why not by Kate Sinclair’s people? Maybe there really was an inner CIA cabal of Rex Deus members steering American intelligence into its own, self-serving waters. After seeing Matoon at Sinclair’s vineyard estate he was willing to believe just about anything now.

  He looked around the room again. Eventually someone was going to come for him and he had to be ready when they did. He’d probably have only a second or two to make his move and he had to make it count. His chance came sooner than he expected. Someone on the lower floor had clearly heard Holliday walking around and knew he’d risen from his electrically induced slumber.

  There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock of the bedroom door and a moment later it opened.

  “Vo bist hellwach,”—you’re awake—said the man in the doorway. German Swiss, 260 pounds, six-four and built like a linebacker. He had huge feet encased in sturdy hiking boots. In one ham-sized hand he held a chubby little HK P30 9mm, and in the other the door key. He was smiling, thick lips parted
to show a single gold tooth in the corner of his mouth. He had brown eyes with eyelashes a debutante would have killed for.

  Holliday didn’t hesitate for a second.

  He took one lunging step forward as he slid the snapped-off TV rabbit ear he’d hidden up his sleeve into his hand and rammed the broken end as deeply as he could into the big man’s left eye. The eye burst like a grape, fluid dripping down the man’s cheek like a sudden gush of tears, and he made a brief whoof sound as the rough metal end of the stainless steel antenna sliced through his frontal lobe and Broca’s area and then slid through the occipital lobe to finally scrape against the back of his skull. There was almost no blood. The man was dead standing up, and Holliday had to act quickly, grunting as he took the full weight of the fresh corpse under the armpits and gently lowered him to the floor. He slid the gun out of the man’s hand and checked the magazine. It was fully loaded. He went through the man’s pockets. A wallet, a set of car keys, an extra magazine for the HK and an SWR suppressor. He kept the extra magazine and the car keys, and screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of the HK.

  Holliday slipped off his shoes and stuffed them into the front of his shirt. As quietly as he could he jacked a round into the chamber of the pistol and opened the door. He found himself in a dark, short hallway. There was a narrow doorway to the left that was either a closet or a bathroom, and a steep flight of stairs.

  He went to the head of the stairs and listened. From somewhere he could hear a TV blaring, a news program by the sound of it, and kitchen noises. There was the sudden gassy hiss of a soda can being popped open and then footsteps, the squeak of springs and finally a sonorous belch. The TV channel switched. A game show in French and then a sitcom in German. Happy Days, judging from the music. Somebody was working a remote.

  Holliday headed barefoot down the stairs, keeping to the wall, the HK held in two hands at gut level. Eight rounds in the magazine. If he needed more than that he was in serious trouble. He reached the bottom of the stairs and another short hallway. An archway on his left led into a brightly lit kitchen. To the right he could see the jumping shadows of the TV show on the far wall of the living room. He took a step to his right and a floorboard creaked.

  “Heinrich? Ist ihm hellwach sein?”

  “Ja,” said Holliday, unable to come up with something more original. He took a turning step into the living room. In front of him was a leather couch. The man seated on the couch half turned his head. At the sight of Holliday with a gun in his hand the man’s eyes widened and he struggled to get up and haul his weapon from its shoulder holster. On the big plasma screen, the Fonz was flirting shyly in German with Mrs. Cunningham.

  Holliday shot him in the right shoulder. The silenced pistol made a sound like somebody bursting a paper bag. The man screamed. Holliday fired again, this time shattering the right elbow, the bullet exiting in a blur of blood and tissue, finally hitting Henry Winkler right in his leather jacket. The plasma-screen image blurred, then dissolved like melting candle wax. A can of Fanta grape soda dropped from the man’s hand and he sagged back onto the couch, moaning. No one else appeared. Leaving the wounded man where he was, Holliday checked the kitchen and the dining room. No one. He turned his attention back to the wounded man.

  “Können Sie Englisch?” Holliday asked.

  The bleeding man shook his head, his teeth clenched. “Only a little.” He was about the same size as poor, dead Heinrich upstairs, but his face was pocked and scarred by the memory of a bad case of adolescent acne.

  “There was a young woman and a priest. Ein Pfarrer.”

  “Ja.”

  “Where are they?”

  The man gave him a hard scowl and sneered.

  “Mach es dir Selber, Mutterficker.”

  That wasn’t hard to figure out. He shot the man in the left kneecap.

  “Wo sind Sie?” Holliday asked a second time. The man was turning pasty white, the blood literally draining out of his face. The man was silent. The holstered gun at his shoulder was an MP5. The man could see it but with his useless arm he couldn’t get at it. The little machine pistol could have turned Holliday into hamburger. Holliday shot him in the right ankle. “Der Pfarrer und der Fraulien. Wo sind sie?”

  “Die anderen Haus,” screeched the man on the couch. The other house.

  “Was andere Haus?”

  “Die Strasse.”

  “Vas?”

  “Aussensite! Die Berg Strasse.” The mountain road outside.

  “Nach oben, oder unten?”

  “Oben!” grunted the man. Up the mountain road. Another house.

  “Wie viele Wachen?” How many guards?

  The man said nothing. He stared up at Holliday, sweat beading on his forehead. The man gave his best imitation of a resolute scowl again. A name, rank and serial number type of guy. Holliday didn’t believe it for a second. The wounded man was beginning to shake as the pain took over. Another few seconds and he was going to pass out.

  “Wie viele Wachen?” Holliday repeated. He put the muzzle of the suppressor against the man’s left eye and pushed a little.

  “Drei! Drei Wachen!” Three guards.

  Holliday slid the MP5 out of the man’s shoulder holster and took a step back. The man was slipping into unconsciousness but there was no telling how long he’d stay there. His eyes rolled up and his head slumped to one side. He clearly needed medical attention and it was obvious he’d be out for a good, long time. On the other hand, he’d seen a soldier with his legs blown off at the knees trying to crawl his bloody way across a rice paddy to an evac chopper.

  “I’m sorry,” said Holliday, meaning it. He put the suppressor an inch from the man’s ear and pulled the trigger. He jerked a little as the paper bag popped. Holliday slid the HK into his pants and put on his shoes. He picked up the machine pistol and wondered about the effort involved in taking the shoulder holster from the dead man.

  There was a faint, familiar sound behind him. Outside? Feet coming up the steps? He turned as the door opened, the MP5 in his right hand. He thumbed off the safety.

  A man in a dark blue ski jacket closed the door behind him, then turned and stood in the foyer, a quizzical expression on his face. “You’re not Heinrich.” His right hand went behind his back.

  “You’re right, I’m not,” said Holliday. He squeezed the trigger on the machine pistol, center mass. There was a sound like someone ripping a piece of heavy cloth and the man went down. Holliday went to the body, his finger on the trigger just in case, but the man had half a dozen holes in his chest and one in his throat. Holliday teased the man over with the toe of his shoe, then dug around a little.

  He found a Para Slim Hawg .45 in a waistband holster and a passport and wallet in the man’s buttoned back pocket. The passport was a brand-new diplomatic with the embedded microchip, and it identified the owner as Major John Boyd Hale, assistant military attaché to the embassy in Rome. Holliday had enough military experience to know his name might be John Boyd Hale or it might not be. He might or might not really be a major, as well, and he was or possibly wasn’t really an assistant military attaché. Considering Major Hale’s appearance at this particular door, it was more likely that he was CIA and his job here was to interrogate Holliday. On the other hand, considering Matoon’s presence at the vineyard, the dead man in the foyer could also be Defense Intelligence Agency, or even be tied into Kate Sinclair’s oddball construct, the Jihad al-Salibiyya. He shook his head. Since the so-called Jihadists had taken credit for the Pope’s assassination no one had made the Templar connection, or if they had, they’d ignored it. As far as the media was concerned, the people’s interest ended at the word “Jihad.” Eventually some scholar would come forward but by then it would be too late. The president would be dead.

  Or maybe not. If he could get them out of this there was still a chance. He stepped over the body of Major John Boyd Hale and opened the door. He cautiously moved out onto the wide porch of the chalet. It was fully dark now but he could make
out the enormous, deeper blackness of the mountain on his left and the paler line of the road ahead. There was a black, late-model Volkswagen Phaeton and an older-model Mercedes parked in front of the chalet, but he ignored both vehicles; he wasn’t about to announce his arrival.

  He began to climb.

  Brennan had been slouched against the wall facing the door for the last hour and a half, singing the same song over and over in a whispered, grating soprano. It was beginning to get on Peggy’s nerves. Apparently it was called “The Orange and the Green.”

  Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have never seen.

  My father, he was orange, and me mother, she was green....

  “Quiet; they’re talking again,” said Peggy, her ear to the door. “Yelling actually.”

  Brennan stopped singing and stumbled to his feet, his tied hands making it difficult. He made his way to the door and leaned toward it, pressing his ear against the wood panel.

  “What are they talking about?” Peggy said.

  “Someone called Heinrich; they’ve been trying to call him but he doesn’t answer. They think something’s wrong.”

  Peggy smiled. “I told you so.”

  “You think it’s your uncle?”

  “‘Wrong’ is his middle name. Heinrich is not in the best of health right now, I guarantee it,” said Peggy. She eased away from the door and let herself slowly slide down the wall.

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” said Brennan.

  “I’ve been with Doc in situations like this before; I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Once a soldier, always a soldier?” Brennan said.